“Perhaps that is the Thing John was looking for,” he suggested.
He turned towards the window in the hope that he might discover Miss Van Patten in the flower-gardens. They blossomed just beyond—a medley of sweet alyssum, mignonette, heliotrope, cosmos, and marigolds. She was not there.
“To what do you refer by the Thing?” demanded Aunt Philomela.
“The Thing he looked for under the bed.”
The color stole into her cheeks making them look more than ever like cameos.
“In these days, with so many strangers on the road, one cannot be too careful,” she avowed.
“No,” he admitted, “I understand that many estimable persons even in New York make it a habit to look under their beds.”
At length Miss Van Patten came in. She was in white again with a loose crimson tie at her throat. She looked as though she might have been in the garden after all—growing there like the other flowers for she had a freshness that only the dew can give. She greeted him with a smile that brightened the room like the sun.
“Daddy is in better spirits than I’ve seen him for a year,” she exclaimed. “He asked for you as soon as he woke up.”
“Perhaps then I had better step up there for a minute before breakfast.”